I really loved this short story. It’s centred around the villain essentially and the way they think what they are doing is good.
via The Curse
I really loved this short story. It’s centred around the villain essentially and the way they think what they are doing is good.
via The Curse
via Dancing Nymphs
A mystical story in response to Image Writing Prompt #50.
I love this it is interesting perspective to write from.
Hey y’all! This is another response to Dragonition’s Writing Challenges. Don’t forget to check out the original post!
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The water pressed in at him from all sides, cold and suffocating. He forced his eyes open, they burned with cold and slowly adjusted to the minimal light. He looked around frantically for the key hoping it wasn’t out of reach on the ocean floor. He could see nothing on the bottom the river sludge had been too stirred up and rose shifting in clouds. Then a tiny stream of bubbles caught his eye. He kicked down his muscles and lungs screaming. The chain attached to his leg catching and pulling at him and his body telling him to go the other way. His hands grazed the bottom. He scrambled for something to grab hold of to keep himself there. Something sharp snagged his fingers and then they touched something that felt right. He was losing consciousness and desperate to breath in but knew he couldn’t. He somehow fumbled the key into the lock at his ankle and breathed in turning the key as he chocked. He rose no longer held down by the concreate and chains. His head broke the surface. He spewed water coughing and gaging. He thrashed his way to the far bank. Spewed more water and collapsed on the rocks. He didn’t even have the energy to find amusement in the fact they’d thrown the key in first to taunt him with hope only to throw him on top of it and leave. They were overconfident and now they would pay for it. When he had a little more energy anyway.
A beautiful little response
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Another short sad story. I like how it circles back to the idea of the piano it gives it a complete feeling. The writing is simple and polished making it easy and enjoyable to read.
“You never play anymore, you just sit there,” I told my dad one afternoon as the light fell on the black and white keys and his unwavering hands. He seemed lost in thought as always and kept his eyes fixed on his fingers. I recalled how the music notes would fill our home from early morning before we were ready to go to school. It was the sound of the keys and the smell of the coffee that made our home what it was.
And now, the sound ceased to exist.
It was three months ago when my mother passed away so suddenly. It was a calm night in March when I heard her being rushed down the stairs with my dad. I came out of my room with my headphones on my shoulders not knowing what was going on. She had on her light…
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I like the way they weave the story in such a poetic form.
Hey y’all! This is a response to Dragonition’s Writing Challenge #1. I hope you guys will enjoy it!
Link to original post
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‘He’s right behind me isn’t he,’ I asked.
‘Actually he’s right in front of you,’ she said.
‘What were?’ I asked looking around and checking behind me just in case.
‘He’s the cat,’ she said.
The cat who had been stalking up and down the coffee table, arched its back and hissed at her.
‘Sorry Dad,’ she said, ‘but he would have found out eventually.’
‘Don’t tell me he’s a shape shifter,’ I groaned.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to the cat, ‘I shouldn’t have talked about you behind your back but you shouldn’t have been eavesdropping.’
The cat yowled at me and stalked out of the room. A minute later a tall ginger haired man stalked into the room.
‘You should be more careful with your words young man,’ he said, ‘especially if you want to keep seeing my daughter.
Every way she turned there was something reflecting her. She’d catch glimpses of her face, her legs or the whole of herself. Often it gave her a fright she didn’t connect to the person in the mirror. It wasn’t that she wasn’t self-aware it was the person reflected in the mirror was not who she was. It was like seeing herself in a costume she had forgotten she had put on. She tried not to look in mirrors for the most part but here she couldn’t avoid them. She was trapped in a house full of mirrors.
An interesting story
He was willing to stay a couple of nights but no longer than that. He could not bear to go on in this manner more than a short amount of time. He could not bear to put the girl, or his wife, through that kind of pain.
She looked so peaceful as she slept. Her youth was written all over her face, the lines around her mouth smooth and shallow, unmarked by heavy stress. All that mouth had seen was laughter and flirty smiles and sweet, gentle kisses.
She rolls over under his arm, her hair tickling his chin. Her hair screams youth as well. A vibrant red, not yet overrun by stubborn grays, not yet dulled by pain and struggle. It smells sweet and spicy, her perfume – probably something from Victoria’s Secret – colliding with the cologne his wife had picked out for him years ago to make…
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The roof was also the walls, it sloped up making a triangle at either end of two long walls. Trees hugged either side, stretching branches to arch over the roof, providing both shade and camouflage. Most people didn’t even notice it was there. The strange shaped house was cosy and deserted. He crept up and peered through the window between the almost closed curtains. Everything was covered in dust and cobwebs. No one had been inside for months. He tried the door it was locked but the key was buried in a pot plant. He crept inside and looked around. He would make it his if no one returned, it was perfect.
It is hard to represent the image of our imagination.
Crumpled paper covers every flat surface of his room, he can’t get the eyes right. He is usually very good at sketching portraits but the eyes were haunting him. It all started one day in his dream. He dreamed he was sitting next to the lake hand in hand with a lady dressed in a light blue dress. She had her head covered by an over-sized hat and her delicate fingers wrapped in pink lace gloves. Her brown hair did not move. It was propped and primped into soft waves that cascaded around her face and framed her small features. She was looking down at her hands and her long thick lashes set themselves ever so gently on her cheekbones.
He wondered who the lady may be but didn’t know how ask. He was afraid to speak lest the calmness be disturbed by his voice. He…
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This is such a sweet story.
Jacqueline stood next to the shop waiting for her best friend, Danielle, to show up. It was a sunny Saturday morning in the small village of Piana where trade was plenty and spirits were high. Danielle skipped down the road and smiled at Jacqueline who held up the bag of coins they managed to save from the beginning of the year. It was finally time to buy the gift.
Both girls entered the shop reluctantly: Jacqueline with her high blond ponytail and Danielle’s short black hair were out of place in the high class French accessories shop but they didn’t seem to realize.
They walked past a red velvet hat that caught Jacqueline’s eye.
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I love the ambiguity of the monster although it seems less a monster and more a wise being.
Source: Writing Prompt #350
She floated above the freezing lake waiting for the monster to reveal itself. The cold air fluttered around her like pigeons. She sighed, breathing warmth into her cold hands. A little ripple barely noticed was all that she needed to smile. He’s come, she thought to herself.
She turned to her right just as the monster’s head gently surfaced. His blue skin was sleek with water dripping down, his green eyes glittering with the reflection of the mountains around. Sarah, is it time? It said in husky voice.
No answer, the sound of silence was calming. She looked at the…
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Great story. I like the details both of the moment and the flashes of the past.
Source: Writing Prompt #348
She somehow finds the last of her energy and launches herself up and at him with the knife. She could taste the familiar metallic tang in her mouth and knew that her lip was bleeding. It barely healed before this episode. It was a daily ritual for him as he enters the house and immediately loses his mind. It wasn’t anything important or drastic this time. It was that his dinner was a bit cold.
The reason was never really important or drastic. The children are still awake. The lights in the kitchen were on. Her friend called during dinnertime. All ridiculous reasons.
But this time, when she felt her head bang on the table again, it was as if something or someone possessed her. She could feel her eyes swelling and her lip burst open but she didn’t cry again. This time was different. She…
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This is such a nice story in response to Image Writing Prompt #29. It just make me feel happy reading it. DJ and Ella have such a lovely relationship. Here is the link to Teara’s story:
Well written response to capture his feeling.
Source: Writing Prompt #308
It was just an urge that he’d acted on, he’d punched the window and now he was standing in a pool of shards. He was looking for any other feeling besides the feeling of emptiness that has consumed him for years now. This was not a good day for him; he had better days when he felt like he had some control over his life. But today was different, today was just black.
He woke up this morning with emptiness around him. The feeling of grief consuming him even though he didn’t lose any loved one. The pit of his stomach seemed so heavy, his heart felt burdened, and his breathing stressed. All these feelings even though he had a good night sleep. He felt afraid, no, he felt very afraid to get out of bed. He felt the ground was filled with demons, red hot…
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This is such a lovely story in response to my prompt, I’m glad you gave it a happy ending.
(writing prompt #304.https://purpldragon.wordpress.com/2017/09/14/writing-prompt-304/)
Source: Writing Prompt #304
He watched through the window as his mother tucked his half-sister in bed and kiss his step father goodnight, then he turned and vanished into the night. It was a daily ritual for Tom since he ran away from his father’s house six months ago. His father was an alcoholic who, in his opinion, probably didn’t even realize he wasn’t around. He was living bad days and worse nights when his father would come back from the bar and wake Tom up from his sleep just to start beating him. One night, Tom decided it was enough, he was going to go live with his mother instead.
His mother always wanted him in her life. She never gave him up, on the contrary she fought hard to gain custody of Tom but it was all because Tom’s dad knew how to best beat…
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This is such a great response, a very amusing read.
“We should burn the evidence” Eretemis offered, hanging the offending object over the fire to emphasize his point. Perfectly serious, he tried to seek out an answer in Valen’s face, the question in his eyes rather than his words.
“The evidence?” Valen snorted, rolling his eyes and swiftly freeing the whiskey bottle from Eerie’s grasp. “You can burn as many bottle as you want, and the evidence will still be inescapable.” Though his slur wasn’t nearly a match for his friend’s, Valen’s voice carried all the signs of a man well into his cups. He blamed 18+ years of being sober for that.
“I’ll have you know, I’m not at all drunk.” Eerie’s attempt at enunciation came across as a drunk father trying to teach his son to read, only cementing Valen’s opinion. He didn’t seem to realize this, however, and tipped a new bottle back to his lips, frowning…
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An interesting response Time to decode.
“What do these symbols mean?”
“There are three basic principles of communicating information that I know –letters and words exert a pull on the other, choices are gradually narrowed down to end speculation, and the final elimination of other alternatives.”
“What is your final message?”
“Words have become redundant. It is possible to communicate through symbols. Language is dead.”
“What are you trying to say? We work in a research lab, and write several papers and reports.”
“Unfortunately, not in the same era.”
“There are some numbers on the last page to denote a date. It says 3050.”
The ending of Pyramids is very good and well done with the 52 word challenge that isn’t easy.
‘Do you remember when we lived down there?’
‘Not really it was too long ago.’
‘Then you’re lucky.’
“What is that memory which pains you?”
“It is embalmed and bandaged, and preserved in a pyramid.”
“Why does that pain you?”
“You and I were sworn enemies, and you lie next to me.”
Here is the link. Yes it was ironic and perhaps a fitting end.
He sat on the rail of the bridge watching the people cross, waiting for his next victim.
He didn’t know that he was being watched, followed from the second he stepped out of his house. He didn’t realize that there is someone who wanted to prove his methods were not up to par, not meticulous enough. He didn’t know that during his last attack, the single slip up was the reason he was now hunted.
Once a hunter, now hunted.
Hunted because he let the girl scratch his face and the police found the evidence of his DNA underneath her fingernails.
And now, he was no longer part of the group. No longer welcomed.
Watching, he was being watched. Planning, his death was being planned, schemed.
The next day, newspapers read “the Bridge Serial Killer was Found Dead Beneath the Bridge.”
Lovely story I look forward to reading more the link is here.
I was enraged to see Tia in tears, and the doll I bought for her pulled apart. The doll was supposed to cry when the nipple was pulled out from its mouth, and quiten on the same being inserted back.
Animesh was patiently trying to put it back together.
“I need to understand how it functions. I can order better toys for her, then…”
The doll was back in shape, but the charm of holding something new in hand was taken away from us. I saw shades of him in Tia, who would turn the toys upside down, and check how automobile wheels moved.
I had fallen in love with Animesh, who was ten years older, and my teacher. He would often say,
“One cannot understand the fundamental nature of things, without breaking down the existing structures and available information. Then, your imagination and creativity helps you in establishing a…
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‘What are you?’ I asked.
‘An angel,’ he said, ‘I guess that’s what you would call me.’
I stared at me dubiously. He had bright blue hair, and was covered in intricate Celtic-knot tattoos. He was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. His wings were huge and white the feathers gleamed in the moonlight.
‘Nice tats,’ I said at last.
He glanced down at his arm, ‘Thanks,’ he said after a pause.
‘What are you doing down here?’ I asked.
‘I fell…’ he said.
‘What did you do?’ I asked.
‘I fell in love with you,’ he said.
‘But we just met,’ I said.
‘But I was watching over you,’ he said.
Then he stepped forward and kissed me. I went to pull back in surprise and then let myself melt into the kiss. His arms went around my waist and I felt his wings enfold us in our own private cacoon. He pulled away for a second and I sighed contentedly.
‘So was it because you fell for a human or a man?’ I asked.
‘Because you are human,’ he said, ‘we are not to love any of you more than the rest.’
‘So gender has nothing to do with it?’ I asked.
‘No and it’s never been a problem,’ he said, ‘humans always like to make up random shit that should be deemed sinful.’
‘You swore,’ I said incredulous.
‘Yeah so,’ he said, ‘I already fell didn’t I.’
We both laughed.
There was a knock at my door.
‘Coming Darling,’ I called.
I opened the door to find two police men standing dripping on my doorstep.
‘Mrs Hess?’ the older one asked.
‘Yes, I was expecting my husband,’ I said, ‘what is this about?’
‘May we come in?’ asked the older of the two.
‘Yes would you like a drink,’ I said politely, ‘what is this about?’
‘I think you should sit down,’ said the younger.
I sat down.
‘We are sorry to inform you that your husband is dead, his car ran off the cliff,’ said the older.
‘No your wrong he can’t have,’ I said.
‘Is this your husband?’ asked the older showing me his driver’s licence in an evidence bag.
‘Yes,’ I said starting to cry.
They stood awkwardly watching me.
‘I shouldn’t have made him go out in this weather,’ I said, ‘I shouldn’t have asked him to get me soup.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said the older one.
I knew it was but I wasn’t going to tell anyone what I’d done.
‘Do you know how it happened,’ I sniffed and grabbed a tissue.
‘A truck swung onto the wrong side of the road and he swerved off the road to avoid it,’ he said.
‘I shouldn’t have asked for the soup,’ I started crying again.
What I really shouldn’t have done, what I hadn’t needed to do was sabotage the brakes, the ironic thing was he would have died tonight anyway in this random accident. The younger policeman patted my hand sympathetically while the older went to make us some tea.
Is is the link to Teara’s Response to one of my prompts. It is a quick enjoyable read.
The echidna waddled peacefully through the grass nosing under fallen branches and bark for insects. A larger creature skidded on rocks and loose earth and it instinctively dove for cover under a rock only leaving its spiny back exposed. It hadn’t bothered to see that made the noise just knew instinctively to find shelter before something decided to scoop it up and eat it. It waited for silence to resume then slowly extricated itself from under the rock and wandered off. It was completely unaware of the still and silent presence looming over it.
Kay peered down through the skylight at the family sitting around the table. The youngest a boy reached for the bread and one of the older girls pulled it away responding to the mother’s command. She couldn’t see a father the boys were all too young. She looked closer. The children didn’t seem at all alike but half resembled the mother in some feature. They must have different fathers she decided and they all must have left. Then the kitchen door opened. The children jumped up to great the woman who walked in, their other mother Kay realised. Kay could now see the woman’s resemblance to the other children. Kay smiled down at the family she should have known better than to assume.
The fog drifted around her. She could barely make out the trees around her or even her feet. She walked carefully knowing if she stepped off the path and into the swamp it could swallow her in seconds if she was lucky or drag her slowly down centimetre by terrifying centimetre as she struggled to free herself. She felt for the next stone with her left foot. As a child she’d been able to run along these hidden paths with her eyes shut but she hadn’t been home in years. She had never wanted to come back but now she was, one careful step at a time. She had to warn them and she was the only one who could that still cared enough.
The clouds hung grey and heavy over the hill dotted haphazardly with houses. Their size varied from tiny units to massive eight bedroom, two story giants. Trees mottled the remaining space forming green organic blobs among the red square rooves. A bird sat on a TV antenna occasionally letting out a chirp calling to the other birds. Then it took off with a clatter of feathered wings. Sief held on tight to its neck feathers. If she fell her own wings were probably still not strong enough to save her from this height, even if it was only one story. The bird finally landed. Sief quickly slid to the ground. The bird ruffled its feathers and took off again. She looked up through the broccoli leaves to watch it fly away.
Wind hissed past my ears as I ran downhill. Sticks and gravel skidded under my feet occasionally. I had to check my pace as I hurtled past trees. If I tripped they would catch me. I hadn’t seen them but I could hear them behind me their panting an echo of mine. They called for me to stop. There was no way I was stopping not with a ghost chasing me. I didn’t dare glance back at the shadowy figure. I had nearly caught up to my friends. I yelled at them to run. Then I was in the middle of them. They grabbed me asking what was wrong spinning me around.
‘Ghost,’ I panted pulling at them to run with me.
I couldn’t see them but I could hear them around the corner panting and feet slipping. Then just as my friends were starting to run the girl rounded the corner.
‘Wait,’ she panted, ‘your phone.’
We all stopped and looked back at her and my friends looked at me with looks that asked seriously that’s your ghost.
‘Thanks,’ I took my phone from her, ‘I thought you were a ghost, I’m sorry I ran.’
She smiled at me and vanished.
The apples clung to the branches in small unripe clusters. The tree was not quite leafy enough to hide them from sight. I waited expectantly for the birds to land. A crimson rosella landed, swayed for a second and tipped upside down. I leapt for its head by teeth snapped on empty air. I barked furiously as it flapped away. I lay down under the tree to wait panting a little. Another rosella landed, managing to stay upright. It sidled down the branch. I watched it carefully as the branch dipped lower under its weight. I stood up slowly muscles quivering with anticipation. I launched myself towards it jaws wide. I snapped them shut on a mouthful of feathers. I licked my mouth finding barely a trace of blood and the bird flapped away.
‘Really you find the great big creepy spider cute?’ I asked.
‘Yeah isn’t she adorable,’ said Jodi.
‘No,’ I shuddered.
She picked it up. It ran up her arm and down the front of her shirt. She picked it up in her hands and held it out to me.
‘Want to hold her?’ she asked.
‘No thanks,’ I said.
‘She’s harmless,’ she said.
‘Yeah well I still don’t want to hold her,’ I said.
‘Ow,’ she exclaimed, ‘she nipped me.’
‘Totally harmless,’ I laughed.
‘Shut up,’ she said putting her spider back in her tank, ‘she’s not poisonous to humans, I’m fine.’
They sat holding hands on the rail of the bridge bare legs swinging.
‘Should we jump?’
‘I don’t know it’s a long way down.’
‘Other people have done it.’
‘We don’t have to.’
‘Will you think I’m a coward?’
‘No just the sensible person I fell in love with.’
‘I love you.’
‘I love you too.’
‘Let’s do it.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes I trust you.’
Together they slide down so their feet were on the bridge and their arms still on the railing. Then still holding hands they jump into misty air and fell towards the river.
This is a fictional short story fragment.
Sometimes I wonder what it would be like to be a bird. To fly everywhere and see the world from above. People think birds a free but really they are just confined by different boundaries than we are. We are confined by these fences and the guards with guns but even before we were here we weren’t free. That’s what we were trying to fight for but now I see freedom is all relative. You can only be free if you think you are. Maybe that’s what people are talking about then they say the birds a free. The birds just don’t know where their freedom ends yet.
This is a fictional short story fragment.
I really enjoyed reading this, it’s such an awesome story in response to one of my writing prompts by Carol J Forrester go check out her blog.
He couldn’t have left it well alone. Of all the screw ups in his life, Jupp was pretty sure that this one topped them all. Scratch that. He was absolutely positive, that this moment, standing on this hill, staring at what little was left of the city he’d grown up in, was the most screwed up, screw up he’d ever had the misfortune to be part of.
He should have know better than to release something that could survive for centuries in a sealed container. He should have know better than to go rooting through the back room of Old Man Iron’s workshop when he should have been anywhere but there. He should have know better than to steal the jar that quite clearly stated it wasn’t to be opened under any circumstances lest great tragedy and doom befall the land.
Jupp was an idiot and he realised that fully.
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He had never been good at striking a bargain
His mother should have known
Better than to send him to market
Never know what you’re going to get
Worried, he told himself these things,
Not wanting to be a disappointment
He had coins in his bag she said should be enough
But no candy or fluff
He wasn’t smart, he told himself, a lie
But he was strong, willing to learn and try
At the markets’ edge he met a man
Who said, catch the pig, and if you can,
He’s yours to keep, but if you fail
I get your money and the pig, tip to tail
Back at home he talked to animals
So he whispered to the pig about future meals
And shook the strangers’ hand
Who oiled the pig with a grease can
The man was surprised to watch the pig
Jump into the boy’s arms…
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https://purpldragon.wordpress.com/ gave a prompt and I am responding to it with this. I suppose it’s been done before, but here’s my take on the story:
Writing Prompt # 19 It wasn’t her fault her brother was a klutz and pulled her down the hill with him when he fell.
Jack. Jill. He was an idiot, a showboat, playing up there on the edge, and she grabbed his hand to steady him when he went off balance and started to fall. He pulled her over and she immediately went to her tumbling mode, recovering quick. He continued to fall, believing this was the end. He had just purchased, and begun drinking, his bottle from the soft purple cloth sack. She practically dove after her idiot brother, to slow his descent, but even with her efforts, the bottle was shattered. At least Jack didn’t die. This was just the latest of his…
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The Possum is a story that almost wrote itself. I didn’t really know what I was writing until I started. It was a story that started with the writing instead of the idea. I began with the first sentence and that led me to the next idea. As I started to write I pictured the place in my head and although I did not include in the story all the details of the place, I chose some and they became the story. The place had a life of its own once I let myself imagine it.
The idea of an underground house is something that interests me and has interested me ever since I heard about it years ago. In Coober Pedy (in the Australian outback) there are people liveing in ‘dugouts’ old mines that have been converted into modern homes. The temperatures outside can be extreme but the underground home stay at a comfortable temperature. The story is not based there but the idea of the underground home came from hearing about this.
It’s dark and cold but that’s how I like it. It makes me feel safe to be able to snuggle up in blankets. I want to stay like that and never come out. I like the feel of cold air on my face, not so cold it makes my lungs hurt but cold enough to make my nose cold to the touch. I had always wanted to live underground. It means light doesn’t wake me up in the morning. I don’t have to wait for the sun to go down to go to bed. I can have my own schedule. Well it should depend on work too but I work from home so it doesn’t matter.
I stretch and reluctantly crawl out of bed. It’s tempting to stay there all day but I need to get up and put the shade cloths up over my garden. It’s going to be hot and I can’t let the sun fry everything. I pull on shorts and a t-shirt and step into thongs. Outside it’s already starting to heat up even though the suns barely up. I turn on the pump at the tap and connect the sprinklers. I let it run while I tie up the shade cloths. I check the tomatoes and beans and pick the handful of ripe ones. There is a snail on my cauliflower. I pick it up, drop it and stand on it. It makes a satisfying squelchy crunch. I turn off the water and go back inside.
The possum sits staring at me with wide frightened eyes. It’s the size of a big rat, it’s definitely a ringtail. I should have known better than to leave the door open even for that short time. I walk towards it slowly. I get within a meter of it before it bolts. It dashes around my house knocking books, glasses, paper, pictures and stationary onto the floor as it crosses the bench. I quickly shut the door that leads to the hallway connecting to the rest of my house. Now it is at least contained in one room. I open the door that leads outside. I try to chase it towards the door but it has other ideas. It’s on my bookshelf now knocking more books and pictures onto the floor. I make another grab for it but again it evades me.
I stop chasing it. It crams itself into the space above the books on the top shelf and sits staring down at me. I get the stool and place it in front of the shelves. Then I get a cardboard box and a wooden spoon and hop up on the stool. I manage to get it into the box with only a little prodding from the spoon. Then I quickly shut the box, hop down from the stool and carry it outside. I shut the door behind me before opening the box. The possum jumps out and runs up the nearest tree vanishing from sight.
I go back inside letting out a sigh of relief. The temporary chaos and excitement that invaded my house was gone. I could relax again.
Waking Up With Wings is a story about something I used to dream about a lot. It is about flying and about falling. I used to dream and daydream about flying and I used to dream about falling and still do regularly. I never actually dreamt about having wings or wished for wings. Although if that was a way I would be able to fly that I would have gone for it. I usually imagined flying being able to swim in the air, or float.
It didn’t occur to me that flying might be dangerous when I was little. However as I got older I started to think of problems associated with the ability to fly. People would see me and I would get lots of unwanted attention. Or if everyone could suddenly fly they sky would become crowded. More recently I worried about the physical dangers such as wind, injury and death.
When I was in primary school. I had a dream I could fly and at school the next day, I tried and tried to fly. I even jumped off things. I thought if I could believe hard enough it would work. I didn’t jump off anything much more than a meter off the ground fortunately. I may have believed I could fly, I just didn’t trust that it would work every time and I was too scared. Not such a bad thing really
It’s funny that me, someone who is scared of heights would want to fly. Maybe I want to be able to fly so I will no longer have to fear heights.
My alarm went off. I sent a hand out from the warm tangle of my sheets, across my desk to silence it. Then pulled it back in. Something felt wrong. There was extra weight on my back and my shoulders felt like they were being twisted. There was something tickling my skin under my t-shirt.
I groaned and sat up turning on my lamp. I reached around and scratched my back. That’s when I realised there were feathers and wings folded neatly under my t-shirt. My first thought was this is a cool dream. I got up and turned on the light.
I pulled the t-shirt over my head. Then I spread my wings. Controlling them was just as instinctive as moving my arms. I opened my cupboard door and my reflection stared back at me, framed by wings the same brown as my hair.
Cutting holes in the back of another t-shirt I pulled it on and managed to get the wings through without too much difficulty. The house was silent no one else was up yet, it was Saturday morning. I’d forgotten to turn my alarm off for the weekend. I slipped into the back yard.
I flapped my wings experimentally. Nothing happened, I tried again, harder. My toes left the ground. I took a run up and launched myself into the air. I was flying. I laughed this couldn’t be a dream it was too real. The cold air against my skin. The feeling of my beating wings.
I was getting higher with every stroke. I looked down the view was amazing. I had no intention of stopping but I was getting tired. Then an air current took me and I glided effortlessly. I floated, regaining my breath, only having to flap occasionally.
I looked down again, I had no idea where I was anymore. The wind was picking up. Suddenly I just wanted to go home. I tried to drop down but a huge gust of wind took me and swept me up. It was getting hard to breath. Then I blacked out.
I came to again plummeting towards the ground. I flapped desperately but it was no use I crashed into the ground and passed out again.
I opened my eyes, and was confronted with white. My head and arm were sore. I tried to sit up but was pushed gently but firmly back. I could still feel my wings under me. I looked around. I was in a hospital surrounded by curious faces, I didn’t recognise anyone.
Then a police officer arrived and shoed everyone out except one doctor. Then she turned to me.
‘What’s your name,’ she asked.
‘Felicity Windson,’ I said.
I could see she was dying to ask about the wings but was too polite to say anything just yet. I wished I had the answers. I also wished I could just go home but right now that seemed like it wouldn’t be happening for a while.